For a city teeming with young people, there is a prevailing sense of loneliness and isolation in London – something I experienced firsthand on my own arrival here.
I was born and bred in Kerry, at the south-western edge of Ireland, a place as famous for its friendliness as it is its rugged landscapes. Though Ireland has my heart, leaving is pretty much a national rite of passage. For some it’s a choice, but historically boarding a plane out of the country has been a necessity for most, the result of economic hardship. I fall into the first group (granted, the desirability of my arts degree in an economy that favours traditional professions may have been a factor… but I’m not one to ruminate). Still, just because every man and his dog has also left the country did not make finding myself entirely alone in a box room in Bethnal Green any easier.
Though culturally similar in many ways, certain contrasts between the English and the Irish became immediately evident – and compounded my rapidly mounting feelings of isolation. When out and about, I would make a conscious effort to try and connect with strangers. Sometimes people would open up, but the conversations felt fleeting at best, and a far cry from the (sometimes inescapable) chatter I was used to back home. When I did manage to snag somebody at the bar for a chat, the effort of staying in touch often felt more burdensome than rewarding, particularly with so many English people my age having transplanted their friendships from university to London – most arrived in the city with ready-made social groups in tow.
The endless suggestions on my social media for cool London restaurants or activities to try with friends only made my sense of isolation more acute. It’s hard picturing yourself at a bottomless wine and pasta place alone, while every other table is populated with groups of best mates, their smiles stained by red wine. Which is why my interest was piqued by a different kind of Instagram ad: one that promised a dinner date with five strangers and an added bonus – the possibility of connection.
Ever since I spent €25 on what turned out to be a thimble-sized mug (that I couldn’t return), I’ve considered myself wise to the perils of online advertising. Still, I felt the pull of Timeleft, a service specifically designed to end the sort of loneliness I was experiencing. I signed up, and before I knew it I was booked in for dinner the following Wednesday at a restaurant I didn’t know with five people I didn’t know – one of multiple Timeleft dinners taking place at the same time across London. Perhaps by doing this, I thought, I’d crack the code for making new friends – a fail-safe formula I could brag about to other members of my ever-widening social circle in the future.
By the time Wednesday night finally rolled around I was deliberately dawdling one street away from the restaurant, sick with nerves. I hadn’t told a single person I know about my dinner with strangers. I mean, what kind of person does this sort of thing?
As it turns out, quite a diverse group of people. When you sign up to the app, you provide details such as your age, sexuality, nationality and horoscope. In the days running up to your reservation, Timeleft’s algorithm (supposedly a complex matching system with a splash of human curation) uses the information to determine your spot in the mix: placing you in a group with all the makings of a successful dinner party.
Inside, I quickly learn that everyone at my dinner is here as a result of targeted Instagram ads. Nobody is from the same country, nobody has the same star sign, and only two people work in a similar profession. Still, the conversation flows surprisingly easily. There’s a freewheeling vibe: a feeling that, since you don’t know anyone, you can be as candid as you like without any fear of judgement. Even if you embarrass yourself, I think, you never have to see them again.
The app has attempted to preempt any awkward silences by providing a game to keep the chat going, a sort of quiz that cycles through increasingly personal levels of questions. The basic information extracted by Level 1 (“favourite condiment?”) evolves swiftly into questions about non-monogamy and fantasies in Level 3. I find myself describing my endless summers of situationships with a level of detail that previously would have required my being waterboarded. A French girl I hit it off with worries she might have overshared about her past. Maybe she did, but who cares? A shortcut to intimacy and honesty seems to be the goal.
After dessert, all Timeleft diners across London have the option of linking up at a pub equidistant from all of the restaurants. The French woman and I duly hop on the Northern Line to Islington, leaving the rest of our group (all of whom said they enjoyed the dinner but were ready to call it a night) behind.
This is where things really start to pick up. The groups merge as we all discuss our different experiences of a dinner with strangers, sharing funny anecdotes from the meals and bonding over the “trauma” of being single or lonely in London. We agree that attempting to make friends organically in this city is nigh on impossible, and declare that it’s hard enough trying to generate a romantic connection on Hinge, Bumble or Thursday, without throwing the possibility of friendship into the mix.
I linger at the bar until closing, chatting to people from all over the world who, like me, are here in London and looking to find like-minded souls. Even if at times it felt as though I was caught in a loop of asking the same introductory questions over and over, I headed home with a sense of fulfilment I wouldn’t have felt otherwise, and returned to a room that felt somehow less solitary. Looking back a few weeks on, I think of the night – and the people I met – with fondness, but I didn’t stay in touch with anyone. Still, I’m not ruling out a second attempt at dinner with strangers. In a way, that online ad actually delivered on its promise: it gave me the sense of connection I’d been looking for.